


L1-Nik

by Mela_Rotta



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (2020)
Genre: Angst may come, Bottom Stone, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Top Robotnik, Very likely Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:09:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26274643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mela_Rotta/pseuds/Mela_Rotta
Summary: [TITLE CHANGED because a plot bunny kept pestering me. I swear it will make sense later in the story.]"You don't know yet the amount of poison that's going to taint your synapses, shatter them like puzzle pieces to be rearranged in a hymn to the only idol you'll ever worship."
Relationships: Dr. Eggman | Dr. Robotnik/Agent Stone
Comments: 39
Kudos: 48





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first time writing in English and I'm pretty nervous, I just hope I haven't made too many mistakes. I haven't watched the movie yet but I spent hours watching fanvids about Stobotnik and oh boy. I was not expecting this ship to win my heart so easily, but here we are. Jesus Christ.

Deep goes the root of evil, as hard and clear as hyaline quartz. Never broken and never tamed, twisting even the better hearts that dare to cross its path. Casualties are welcomed and loved.

You become good soil the day you meet the Doctor, in that lab full of colored lights that flicker according to a silent rhythm. On your left side four other people wait for the judgement of the man whose name is always whispered and never called out loud, lest anyone anger the god of flesh and wire. You heard the rumors, you know the numbers: eleven agents, none of them lasted more than six days. The lucky ones managed to get away with all their limbs. The others simply disappeared, and their names were thrown away like paper cups, emptied of coffee and purpose.

It's hard to be scared when you've got nothing to lose and too many scars for one body; when your personal history could be summed up as: he was born and tossed away, he fought and killed, he died. Yes, it's hard but there's still place for fear in your blood, although you're careful not to let it show on your face, keeping your gaze focused on one of the metal tubes on the opposite wall, hands clasped in front of you.

When you entered the lab the Doctor was standing still in front of his desk; now you hear his footsteps approaching the first agent on the left, heels clicking on the metal floor, tiny vibrations that reach you and make you hold your breath.

«Fresh meat,» chuckles the Doctor, his voice as cold and sharp as cut gems. «I'd better provide my babies with teeth, the next time. Your name, idiot.»

«Agent Welch.»

«Out.»

«But-»

When you hear the slap you do not flinch; the agent next to you does, however. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the black coattails fly as the Doctor walks up to her. He's tall, his head hunched like a crow ready to strike.

«Do you work well under pressure, agent?» he asks with a smile.

«Yes, sir.»

«No you don't, you fucking liar. Both of you, out.»

They scuttle off without turning back, and you feel the Doctor's eyes boring into your skull. Don't move, be still, be the pebble in the pond: the water moving, by the water unmoved.

«Your name, agent.»

«Agent Stone, Doctor.»

He steps closer, and you get a whiff of coffee with a hint of grease below. «Do you consider yourself a good agent?»

«I consider myself apt to whatever task my superiors may assign me to.»

The Doctor falls silent for a moment, and you wonder if he's going to let you go unharmed. When he crosses his arms you let your gaze hover on his hands, noticing the weird buttons on the gloves, before getting back to reality when he raises his voice.

«I hoped for cream, and they gave me water instead! As if any of you pathetic worms could be useful to me. You there!» He points at one of the agents, and you slightly turn your head to look at her. She's almost as tall as the Doctor, her hair cut short and her hands clasped behind her back.

«Agent Monaghan, sir.»

«I didn't ask. Who do you think you are, standing there like you own the place?»

She pales and lowers her head. «I'm sorry, sir.»

«I bet you've always been the teacher's pet. Am I right?» He sneers. «I don't like cocky people, agent. You can go.»

«Please, sir, I-»

He raises a finger to his lips and she shuts up immediately, watching with widening eyes as he lifts his other hand and presses some buttons on his palm. A couple of seconds later, two egg-shaped drones fly out of their alcove on the opposite wall, aimed at her. The Doctor steps aside, and before the agent can raise her hands the drones seize her by the shoulders with metal arms. You take a step back to avoid being hit when they hurl her against the wall to your right, and it takes you no effort to keep a straight face as a scream and the crack of broken bones echo in the lab.

The Doctor sighs and stretches his arms, before sitting back in his chair and turning toward his desk. He types something on a touchscreen and stays silent for a couple of minutes as if he's forgotten you're here, as if he can't hear the woman crying on the floor. Suddenly he pauses and straightens his back.

«Tell me something, agents. Why should I hire you? There's nothing you can do that my Badniks cannot do.»

You hear the other remaining agent shift uncomfortably. «Well, I have a lot of skills-»

«Ugh, boring! And you're supposed to be the best? I've met monkeys smarter than you. Is any of you capable of a satisfying answer?»

You lower your gaze to the drones to your right, lazily flying over the crying agent: they're almost beautiful, the lights coloring them red and blue like lethal Christmas baubles. «Machines and humans can both be broken,» you say slowly. «It's just a matter of endurance.»

You hear the Doctor whip around in his chair, the creaking of his shoes as he races up to you. You shift your gaze from the Badniks to their father, to that mask of barely held-in outrage, anger that makes those hazel eyes glow like embers and that thin mouth twitch. The Doctor bends down till your noses brush and he points a finger to your chest. «How dare you!» he snarls, the smell of coffee stronger now that he's so close. «How dare you compare yourself to my perfect babies, you-»

«I didn't,» you cut him in, keeping your eyes fixed into his. «You asked a question, Doctor. My answer is that I'm good at avoiding breakage, just like your machines.»

The Doctor seems to ponder over your words for an instant, before removing his finger. «Just good? Not “the best”?» he taunts you, the rage softened by an amused glint.

You're offended by such an obvious bait, so you deliver the words with a cold smile. «Death comes cloaked in underestimation.»

«Indeed it does,» replies the Doctor, and then turns his attention to the other man. «You there, go and take that whimpering mess with you.»

You both stand still as the agent lifts the woman onto his shoulders and runs away, and when you're left alone with the Doctor you lower your eyes. You look at his black sneakers, not what you expected him to wear.

«So,» he whispers, his voice deep enough to send a shiver up your spine. «you can actually use your brain. Now let's see if you can avoid fucking up on your first day. Go fetch me a latte.»

«Yes, Doctor» you say with a nod of your head, and as you leave the humming nest of metal you half expect the Doctor to shoot you from behind, but he doesn't. The last thing you hear before the door closes is the creaking of the chair, and then you're left alone with the awareness of the blood still pulsing in your veins. You're hired, and death will come another day.

♦ ♦ ♦

You don't know yet the amount of poison that's going to taint your synapses, shatter them like puzzle pieces to be rearranged in a hymn to the only idol you'll ever worship.

For the time being, you carefully measure out 350 milliliters of steamed whole milk and a generous pinch of cinnamon, stirring gently so as not to dissipate the foam. The smell is great, and the coffee from your moka pot – one of the few things you truly cherish – is hands-down the best coffee the break room kitchenette has ever seen, but you've heard many stories about the Doctor throwing scalding lattes into his agents' faces, and you know you can't afford too much self-confidence.

When you return to the lab the door opens before you knock, and you slip in with a neutral face and just a glimmer of hope in your heart. «Your latte, Doctor» you announce, walking up to him. He lifts his head from the motherboard he's been working on with an electric soldering iron, and extends his free hand without a word. You hand him the cup, careful not to brush his fingers in the process, and turn around to position yourself in a shadowed corner of the lab, a couple of meters away from him. You watch him as he brings the cup to his mouth and takes a short sip, followed by a pause and then a longer sip. You feel a spark of joy in your stomach as the Doctor's shoulders loosen a bit and he puts the soldering iron back in its holder so he can cradle the cup with both hands.

«Where did you buy it? Costa?» he inquires, sniffing the latte.

«I made it myself,» you reply matter-of-factly. The lab is too small for two egos, after all.

The tiny jolt of his shoulders doesn't go unnoticed by you, and you cannot suppress a smile. The Doctor gulps down the rest of the latte and tosses the empty cup behind him, but you manage to catch it before it hits the floor.

«Could be better. Now get out and keep watch.»

«Yes, Doctor.»

You exit the lab and position yourself beside the metal stairs of the truck, ready to stop anyone who might try to disturb the Doctor. Midsummer's sun shining hard and merciless on the tarmac of the parking lot of the base. No trees around, no shadows for you to shelter in. You squint your eyes to shield them against the harsh light reflecting on the concrete, the heat weighing on your head and shoulders, pressing against your forehead to harvest sweat drops. You breathe slowly, focusing your mind on the surroundings. In the bushes near the perimeter fence, cicadas sing their hunger for a mate.

♦ ♦ ♦

When the wristwatch strikes 1300 you go up the stairs and enter the lab. As soon as you step inside you have to duck to avoid a flying wrench.

«What do you want?!» yells the Doctor, glaring at you with bared teeth, his coat hanging from the chair and his sleeves rolled up, smears of grease on the pale skin of his ungloved hands and forearms. «I don't remember calling you, unless I've hit my head and thus experienced a brief amnesia. Is that what happened, Stone?» he asks, voice dripping with sarcasm.

You lower your eyes. «No, Doctor.»

«You know, Stone, some people are actually busy working and do not have the time to bask in the sun! So please, waste no more of my time and tell me what you need.»

«I just thought that you might want something to eat by now.»

He rolls his eyes and leans into his chair. «God, you sound like a fucking nanny,» he groans, running a hand through his dark hair. «I hate being hungry. Stupid human body, the day I transfer my consciousness into a robot...» he drawls, spinning in his chair.

«Maybe a poke bowl?» you suggest, bending to pick the wrench up. «Something nutritious and fast, so you can get back to work right away.»

He jumps out of the chair and rushes up to you, hair disheveled and an annoyed look in his face. «Sounds good, but no mushrooms. Gimme that.»

He snatches the wrench from your hand, greasy fingers staining yours. _Weird_ , you think as you exit the lab and make for your assigned company car. The last agent to touch him got his hand cleaved off by a Badnik. _Maybe he hates touching only when he's the one undergoing it._

♦ ♦ ♦

You spend the rest of the afternoon in the growing shadow of the truck, the sun relenting his throne to fat clumps of clouds only around 1900, dusk spreading its blanket of deep violet to put the cicadas to sleep, and in the eerie silence of the empty parking lot you almost relax.

Then you hear the lab door whirr behind you.

When you turn around the Doctor's standing on the threshold with his arms crossed, staring intently at you.

«Yes, Doctor?» you croak, voice hoarse with thirst, and you feel a sweat drop roll down your forehead. His eyes follow the brief trajectory, and he leans against the door jamb with a smile.

«You're a lapdog through and through, aren't you? Wagging your tail at me even after I left you outside all day.»

Not knowing what to say, you deem it wiser to stay silent. The Doctor rolls his eyes and waves a hand at you. «Come inside, I need you to sort my email. It's unbelievable the amount of junk the top brass send me, considering they're barely literate.»

You trail after him before he changes his mind, and you do not ask for water when he hands you a tablet. You immediately sit down on the floor and start rummaging through the emails, the cold air of the lab a pleasant relief for your flushed skin, but as you work you can't avoid casting sideways glances to the Doctor, now back into his chair with his eyes fixed to the holographic screens.

His fingers like black-clad butterflies flying over them, his shoulders hunched as he twists the projected lines into elliptical shapes, schemes and charts floating around showing data you cannot comprehend, and maybe that's what makes your stomach tense for an instant.

So this is what a genius looks like. Mad scientist tamed and well dressed, his hair perfectly combed and shaved, his raging fire caged in those barely blinking eyes. Why did they send you to him? Lambs cannot bridle wolves.

(Remember that day on the beach? You were six and your mom was still alive. The roaring sea and the howling wind. You ran along the hungry foam pretending to be the captain of the toy boat in your small hand, silly visions of bravery.)

Nevertheless, you have to try.

♦ ♦ ♦


	2. Days 5, 6

The Doctor's voice is a peculiar one.

When he's talking to the Badniks it's low and tender, warm with affection. When he's yelling at you it's piercing and shaky, high-pitched insults flowing out in a seemingly endless river. After four days of unexpected tranquility you trash an email from Billboard that you thought was spam, and for that he chews you out for ten minutes straight, meticulously listing ten different explanations for the concussion you surely must have suffered in your childhood, “because that's the only thing that can justify your absolute inaptitude, Stone!”

You try to gain his forgiveness by making him a special latte with almond milk and freshly grated hazelnut, and you obtain a grumbled “not bad” and a stack of paperwork that takes all afternoon to sort through, but the boring task turns out to be of some use. It's just a handful of names, short strings of info: “exactly like that time in Pakistan”, “about your conduct in the Kimathi affair” and so on, most of them signed by Vice Chairman Walters. The rest of the stack is mostly accounting and reports, but you check it all the same as you divide it into several manila folders.

Of course you've never heard about the Kimathi affair, and you don't know what happened in Pakistan, but if you were to take a guess you'd say that the Doctor is no stranger to the oiling of guerrilla and espionage wheels. (Nor to their destruction: after all the man's not famous for his diplomacy, is he?)

You close the last folder and suppress a sigh as you crack your stiffened neck; you wonder how the Doctor can live like this, perched on his chair for hours and hours with a posture that would make a chiropractor foam at the mouth; yet whenever he stands up his back is as straight as an arrow and his limbs graceful in their movements. Weird bird, Eurasian bittern, _botaurus stellaris_.

You get up and place the armful of folders on a free desk to the Doctor's left. «I'm done, Doctor. What else can I do for you?»

He's working on some blueprints of what looks like a Badnik motorcycle, eyes wide and fingers constantly moving over the lines, looking for perfection. «Go ask doctor Shannon at floor -2 about the last reports. He knows what I'm talking about. And bring me an apple too.»

«Yes, Doctor.»

♦ ♦ ♦

The Doctor spins around to grab the sealed folder you're handing him, but his hand stops mid-air when he notices the paper bag in your arms. «I said “an apple”, Stone. Why do you insist on being dense?»

You shrug, placing the bag on the main desk. «I didn't know what kind you like, so I bought them all.»

His frowns deepens, a darkness clouding his eyes. «I don't like food waste, agent.»

«Don't worry, Doctor,» you smile reassuringly as you unfold a napkin over the metallic surface. «Neither do I.»

You bend your right wrist in a precise manner and a butterfly knife slips out of your sleeve: you catch it with deft fingers, looking the Doctor straight in the eyes, and flip it open with a swift circular motion as your other hand unfolds the crumpled rim of the paper bag.

The look of surprise on his face makes your cheeks flush with juvenile pride, and your smile widens. «Red, yellow, pink or green?»

The Doctor blinks and turns back to the glowing screen. «Green.»

You silently peel the chosen apple, taking care not to cut out too much pulp and neatly laying the slices on the napkin. As you put the knife away the Doctor turns off the screen with a flick of his index finger and shifts his attention to the fruit, taking a slice and gulping it down basically whole. «I want you here at 7 sharp, tomorrow.»

You nod and reach out to pick up the bag, but the Doctor suddenly grabs you by the wrist with a hold painful enough to make you flinch.

«The toy stays.»

«Yes» you exhale, your free hand slowly pulling the knife from your sleeve to place it beside the sliced apple. The Doctor follows the motion with the quivering eyes of an animal, ready to strike at the slightest show of defiance, but you know better than that. You lower your gaze ( _here's my belly, here's my surrender_ ) and the Doctor releases you without a word.

When you walk out the door with the bag in your arms the evening air hits you like a slap: you breathe it in to taste its coldness, its rich flavor of baked earth and linden pollen. And yet, as you run a hand over your face, the smell of apples seems stronger than everything else.

♦ ♦ ♦

You stop in the middle of the hallway, empty moka in one hand and a packet of _Lavazza Super Crema_ ground coffee in the other.

In the early morning quiet, the voices in the break room are loud and clear.

«So Doctor Weirdo's got himself a new slave?» Young man, amused.

«Yeah» replies another man, older, chain-smoker judging by the rasp in his voice. «It's that Stone. Remember when those Russians blew up General Hoffman's car?»

The younger man chokes on what's probably coffee. «Wha- It was him?! I thought the agent had died!»

«He almost did. Spent three months in a hospital.»

«And the General sold him out to Weirdo?»

«No, that was Walters' doing. Needed a new babysitter for that sociopath.»

There's a moment of silence, coffee is poured once again into emptied cups. Then the younger man speaks again, with laughter in his voice: «D'you think he's gonna last?»

«I sure hope so» you answer calmly, entering the room. They both jump, the smoker almost choking on his own spit and the boy spilling coffee all over his white shirt. They immediately start spluttering excuses while you walk up to the kitchenette to fill your moka with water and coffee.You open the mini-fridge and take the bottle of almond milk you left there yesterday, then proceed to pour it into a small kettle to warm it up. God, you're hungry. Your wristwatch marks 0644. You turn around and smile at the mumbling idiots. «Do you have something to eat?»

♦ ♦ ♦

«Would you care for a cherry muffin, Doctor?»

He does and you both eat in comfortable silence, sipping your lattes and licking the glossy red of the cherries off your lips. The color makes him look paler, malaria-white skin that anybody would think to be so cold but it's not. You felt its warmth even through the glove last evening: a dog bite to tell you that you still have a long way to go, if you want to gain his trust.

«You're hurt.»

«Just a scratch» you're quick to reply, instinctively shoving both hands in your pockets to hide the bloodied knuckles.

«And _just_ so you know, I hate brawlers.» He pops the last bit of muffin into his mouth, before downing what's left of his latte. «Don't disappoint me, Stone. You wouldn't like it when I'm disappointed.»

«Yes, Doctor.»

«Now, I need to focus so you need to fuck off,» he sighs, popping his neck. «I've got a conference call in five minutes, take it from the tablet and if somebody complains tell them that-»

«That a second of your time is more precious than the sum of their lives, Doctor?»

His lips curl up in a truly amused smile. «Well, ain't this a surprise! The little mockingbird can think. Finally understanding who you're dealing with, agent Stone?»

 _I'm dealing with a razor ready to cut my throat._ «I'll go take that call, Doctor.»

«And bring me another latte when you're done.»

♦ ♦ ♦

It's almost 1100 when the call ends, leaving you with a slight headache and eleven pages of notes in your laptop. You forward them via email to the Doctor, before getting out of your car to go make two lattes. As the moka pot starts to gurgle its familiar song, you warm up a cheese pretzel and put it on a paper plate; you quickly assemble the lattes before the food gets cold and scurry off to the lab.

When the door opens, however, you're not greeted by yelling or grumpy silence but rather music. Loud, aggressive metal music. You take a hesitant step inside the truck, and almost trip over your own feet when you see the Doctor dancing.

_What the fuck._

Dancing like an angry steam engine trapped in a body too small, too frail; gripping the metal tubes and flexing his scapulas, waving his arms like he's trying to summon a demon straight from the main console. Or like he's the one being summoned.

The colored lights make you feel like you stumbled upon a sabbath, and you realize you're holding your breath. You slowly exhale and walk closer, diaphragm trembling under heavy drumming, head throbbing against crying guitars.

The Doctor suddenly turns around and screams, making you jerk back.

«What the fuck, Stone!» he shrieks, pressing a button on his left hand to turn off the music. «Have you ever heard of knocking?»

«I'm sorry, Doctor. I brought the latte and a snack,» you smile tentatively. «You dance very well, if I may add-»

He shoves three fingers in your mouth, grabbing your jaw so hard it makes you groan in pain.

«I swear to my sacred brain, Stone,» he growls, pulling you closer till you feel his warm breath on your mouth. «If you so much as whisper the first syllable of a word about this to anyone, I will personally skin you. _Alive!_ »

Eyes widened and cheeks reddened by dance and rage, hair disheveled and twitching mustache: you've never seen him like this, angry god ready to light up the world with lightning.

You gulp, your tongue twitching against the leather of his gloves, smokey taste on your papillae; the Doctor releases you with a disgusted look in his eyes and wipes his hand clean on your jacket, before shifting his attention to the cups and the pretzel.

«Cheese flavored?» he inquires, eyeing it suspiciously. You nod and smile as if nothing weird has just happened.

_A plain one wouldn't suit you._

«Yes, Doctor.»

«Good. I'm starving.»

He wolfs it down like he hasn't eaten in a month, bites big enough to make you worry he's going to choke but he doesn't, and when he's done he asks for another.

As you cross the sunny parking lot, you wonder if there's ever a time when his mind stops burning proteins and fats, gnawing away at his bones to suck out more marrow to feed a new machine. You think about the Badniks, their red lenses pulsating like many egg-shaped hearts. Pieces of him birthed by the grey womb of his head, flowing out through his eyes for his fingers to give them shape, purpose. The miracle of a perpetual motion fueled by a love that has no interest for humans.

Maybe that's why he dances: relief is found in other people's symphonies, because they give and ask nothing in return.

Maybe that's why you get back with the pretzel and a sliced apple he did not ask for. The Doctor eats that too, after shooting you a glance of mild surprise. The blue lights from the screen give his irises the depth of open windows, twilight sky gazing into you.

( _Botaurus stellaris_ , or starry heron. A truly apt name for a man whose skull holds a galaxy.)

♦ ♦ ♦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How to tell if an author is Italian:  
> \- Moka  
> \- Lavazza coffee


	3. Day 23

Apples, pears, seedless grapes. No avocado, no strawberries. Yes to mango but only when diced and mixed to a fresh valerian salad. Nectarines and walnuts take the cake. No mushrooms, no spicy stuff, and that's about it when it comes to food.

No touching, that's no news. If the Doctor wants fruit you bring it to him already peeled and sliced. No smoking, that's no problem since you never did, and absolutely no chewing gum.

Crumbs of information you collect after every yelling or silent show of approval, although mostly yelling. You try offering the Doctor some propolis candy on day 11 and he almost unleashes a Badnik on you, screaming in outrage as you stand still, trying to maintain your composure under the red laser sight. “Do you think I'm an old fart?! Why don't you bring me a catheter and some Protefix too, huh!”

He punishes you by making you polish every single one of his thirty-five standard babies, snapping at you every couple of minutes. Idiot, disgrace, bumpkin, fool, and so on, “Be gentle with them or your mommy's Christmas present will be a box full of ash”.

That hits close to home, and you have to bite your tongue hard.

On day 14 you stumble upon the Doctor dancing again, but this time he only screams and then takes the latte, no threats. You nurse your drink, mustering every ounce of willpower you have to keep yourself from humming the pop song he was bopping to. You wish he didn't turn it off.

♦ ♦ ♦

Day 21 is especially difficult. It begins with you walking to the lab, your eyes focused on the plate holding the Doctor's breakfast, only to end up headbutting the metal door when it doesn't automatically open.

«Doctor?» you call, alarmed. From the inside the clanking of metal and whirring of propeller; the rising buzzing of a motor suddenly sputtering and slowing down, the sound of something hitting something, the buzzing rising again. You knock hard on the door, and this time the Doctor hears you.

«WHAT!» his voice thunders from inside.

«Your breakfast, Doctor!»

«GO AWAY!»

You roll your eyes at that and lay the plate and latte in front of the door. «I'll leave it here. Please do remember to eat!»

He doesn't even bother to answer, and you go back to the discomfort of the break room sofa to work through the daily reports and conference calls.

You spend the next two days leaving tray after tray, mostly pretzels and muffins as solicited by a note the Doctor slips under the door at some point; you also add a lot of fruit and beef jerky to balance the carbs, dark chocolate for energy, fresh salad for fiber.

He scarfs it all down and yet you can't shake off the worry, the made-up image of ribs standing out, bones showing where only soft flesh should be, sunken eyes glued to the blue flames of the screen he eternally orbits. Of course, it's all in your head: even with the coat and turtleneck on, the Doctor's frame is undeniably wiry, strong. Shoulders broad enough to fit his intelligence, modern Atlas forsaken by everyone. Except you, realizing just now that if you weren't here, the Doctor would probably fast rather than pause his work, because devotion is a commendable thing but the Doctor is hostile to turning a dial without tearing it off.

(Does he remind you of someone?)

As the sun of day 23 begins to set you shut the laptop and toss it on the backseats of your car, sick of compiling reports and writing excuses as to why the Doctor has been unable to join the last five meetings with the heads of the Research Department, the Doctor will get in touch with you as soon as possible, kind regards.

You take a swig of your cold latte, staring through the windshield at the lab door, still stubbornly closed. When your phone buzzes in your pocket you fish it out with a sigh, ready to deal with another scientist demanding an appointment with your boss, but it's the Doctor himself.

_1 bottle of red wine ASAP._

You turn the ignition key so hard you almost break it.

♦ ♦ ♦

You're certain you'll have to pay at least two red light tickets, but you don't care and just run up the stairs with the bottle and a glass safely tucked in a plastic bag into your arms. The door opens immediately and you rush in before it can change its mind, a strange excitement in your heart.

«Ah, Stone!» the Doctor welcomes you, a perfect smile on his black-streaked face, sleeves rolled up and a piece of wire hanging down from his neck like he's some kind of forest warrior welcoming you to a ceremony.

You approach him with a relieved smile. «Doctor, how are you? Are you hungry?»

«Thirsty like a prophet in the desert!» He laughs almost maniacally.

«I've brought the wine, here, let me open it for you.» You swiftly unscrew the bottle and pour him a generous glass of Merlot, gently stirring it before passing it to him. The Doctor chugs it like water and hands the glass back so you can refill it, this time almost to the brim.

He eases into his chair and starts spinning around you with pushes of his long legs. «Won't you ask me what I've accomplished, Stone?»

He sounds like a spoiled kid who's gotten an A+, something so vain and playful in his voice that it makes you feel like an accomplice in a crime you've yet to commit.

«Of course, Doctor. What project have you been working on?»

«Something personal for once,» he chuckles, pointing a finger to a small metal box in the middle of the main console. «Go on, open it. Take a look.»

You walk over to the table, your fingers slightly trembling as they brush the cold surface of the lid. «Are you sure, Doctor?» you ask with sudden uncertainty, looking at him from over your shoulder.

He snorts with mild annoyance, swirling the glass of wine. « _Yes_ , Stone. Come on!»

You take a deep breath, and finally open the box to reveal a small drop-shaped drone glistening white and black, its propeller like a sleek antenna and its mechanical eye asleep. You dare not touch it, feeling unworthy of its elegance; your hands familiarized with only the roughness of guns and knives, cooking pots (and guitars, even though it's been years since you touched one).

«Well?» asks the Doctor, voice shrill with impatience.

You're no poet, but you try. «It's beautiful... Looks like a jewel.»

«But it's not.» He comes to your side and scoops the drone from its black velvet bed, gloved hands gently cradling it. «Matryoshka doll, Trojan horse, something greater is waiting for you. Wake up, my dear...» he whispers, magical words interwoven with that special love that you've so rarely witnessed until now.

As life is breathed into the drone, it opens a glowing red eye and its propeller turns on, lifting it off its creator's palm.

«What's it for?» you ask, gently stroking it with a finger.

The Doctor takes another swig of wine. «Oh, it's a bomb.»

You jerk your hand back and he laughs wickedly, grabbing a scrap of metal from a desk. «Don't worry Stone, it's not for you. Now hold this up for me, I want to show you the laser!»

A quick push of buttons on a glove and a thin tube emerges from the drone's underside to aim a laser beam at the scrap in your hand. Your jaw almost drops in admiration when the drone halves it in a split second.

«God.»

The Doctor bows with a flourish. «Thank you, but I'd rather be called _your majesty_.»

You can't hold back a laugh, as you put the scrap back on the desk. «If you want me to, I'll do it» you joke.

«Yes,» he says, a sudden dryness to his voice as he leans against the main console. «I know you would. The question is _why_.»

You find yourself at a loss for words. In all your years as an agent, you worked for many different exhibits of the human gallery, collecting knowledge of their idiosyncrasies, obsessions, and habits ranging from trivial to downright disgusting, but you didn't care as long as you got your pay, and they didn't care as long as you didn't shoot them in their sleep. You're just a pawn, ready to kill or be sacrificed should the need arise: nobody ever stopped to ask you why, why did you choose this? Why did you turn your back on your grieving husk of a family?

(Because the last remains of affection died in that hospital bed with your mother and newborn sister, and all you were left with was grudge. _Father_ is a despised word in your vocabulary.)

«What do you mean, Doctor?»

He raises an eyebrow, putting down his empty glass. «Spare me, Stone. Even with your measly two-digit IQ, you're smart enough to know what I mean and still too dumb to cheat me.»

You take a step back, mouth agape in astonishment. «Are you doubting my loyalty?»

«Yes, I am!» he snaps, and the drone hovers closer to you with a threatening glint in its glass eye. «I've been keeping count, agent: twenty days, congratulations!»

You glare at him. «Twenty-one.»

«Day's not over yet, is it?» he counters, pulling away from the console. You don't move as he draws nearer, looming scarecrow with hungry eyes and sharp claws hidden in the palm of each hand, and every inch of your spinal column itches with a medullar instinct to run away, run away from the answer that you don't owe him.

«I ran a check on you.» He's so close now that your chests almost brush, almost a crash of heats. «It came out clean, as I suspected it would.»

«I'm no spy!» you hiss back, lowered head and clenched fists.

« _Then what are you?!_ »

Unrelenting bastard, but it works: the answer finds its way out of your lips, the sickening sensation of your heart trying to climb through your throat. «I need a purpose, Doctor.»

A stillness falls between your bodies like the first snowflake of the winter yet to come: such quiet, you wonder if the man standing in front of you can hear the frantic beating of the flock of robins against your ribcage, ready to take flight, no key to lock them in except for the one on the Doctor's tongue. _Yes or no. Keep me, toss me away._

It's a simple matter.

If he asks you why, it means that underneath the shell of his human embodiment – devoid of warmth and emotional education – he's hiding a rusted engine in desperate need of a sanding down. _My hands are coarse enough._

Through half-lidded eyes, you watch as the Doctor moves back to the main console and pours another glass of wine that he proceeds to offer you.

«Am I to be your purpose?» he asks as you drink it slowly and before you can answer he adds with a grin: «Selfish little dog.»

«You showed me the drone.»

_You showed me one of your many live wires._

He raises a hand for the drone to land on, the tiny jewel chirping as it snuggles against the glove; the Doctor lets out a sigh. «Yeah, I did.»

The wine is good; it fills your empty stomach and its warmth pools in your chest, your head. You relish in its fruity aftertaste, the fermented memory of grapes and oakwood kissing each other for months in the dark of a cellar. Lightheadedness is a dangerous game, though: it's better if you head home.

«May I go, Doctor?»

He keeps his gaze fixed on the drone. «What happens in Vegas...»

«Stays in Vegas,» you finish, taking with you the empty bottle as you make for the door. «I know. See you tomorrow, Doctor.»

The night is an ocean of black shapes and blacker trees in the distance, wind whispering amidst their branches to accompany the crickets. So pure and whole is the air, you drink it in deep breaths. You drive with the windows rolled down to wash away the smell of work, the radio blasting.

_Some foolish thing, some foolish thing I've done,_

_Cause I'm just a soul whose intentions are good_

_Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... I don't know what happened. They're two HUGE weirdos.
> 
> [The song is "Don't let me be misunderstood" by Santa Esmeralda]


	4. Day 29

It occurs to you only days later, as you're licking the sweat off your lips during your morning run, that you both drank from the same glass.

Is this how wild becomes domesticated? The stray cat stepping closer to your door day after day, hissing at every abrupt gesture, allowing you to feed him but not to touch him; no purring and no kind words. It's ok: trust is a slow thing and you've already earned so much. Resentment buds from unwanted pressure, so you force yourself to unlearn all the old tricks and simply sit out on the porch with a welcoming smile and a bowl of food.

After all, it's your fault that the Doctor let his guard down for a small, possibly fatal bit; he saw the awe in you and found it too unadulterated to not ride it like a wave, his ego craving eulogy. You stumbled into your home with the sole company of a wine bottle, and through the haze of unripe retrospection you labeled what had just happened as a mere coincidence: the Doctor needing attention, and you being the closest available person. Now you realize the ignorance of such a judgment, pitiful effort to backtrack and delude yourself into thinking that nothing had changed but _it had_.

It has.

You signed a contract on the wet rim of that glass, the drone witnessing the silent exchange like in the old days when a man's worth was measured by kept promises. It's a tug-o-war with a fire pit in-between: pull too hard and you'll split the other's hand open. Let go and the rope – be it your purpose or his sanity, edges already blurring – will go up in flames.

The first mistake ( _sin_ , says a voice in the back of your head) was gripping it, trading good answers for hiring, lattes for emails, sorrys for tongue-lashings, compliments for a shared elation. It's unclear what the Doctor's advantage may be in all this, and you're unsure whether you want to know the answer.

♦ ♦ ♦

So when you slip into the lab at 0700 you act like nothing's happened, and serve the Doctor his breakfast. Before digging in, he removes his red-trimmed coat and hands it over. «I want it back in one hour.»

You fold it carefully over your left arm, allowing your fingertips to memorize the softness of the wool blend, and the implied meaning of his action is enough to make your voice unsteady. «Anything else, Doctor?»

« _Yesh_ ,» he slurs, swallowing a mouthful of pretzel. «Are you a good driver, Stone?»

«I drive both cars and motorcycles. When I was a kid I wanted to be an F1 driver.»

«How touching. Don't bother drinking this,» he adds, snatching the latte from your hand. «You'll do better on an empty stomach.»

You arch an eyebrow suspiciously. «Why?»

« _Sto-one_ ,» he croons, waving the pretzel in your face. «I'm three seconds away from making my babies obliterate you. Understand?»

You smile graciously to defuse him. «Yes, Doctor. I'll be back with your coat.»

♦ ♦ ♦

As soon as you turn into the parking lot you spot the Doctor's ghostly silhouette standing in the sun next to the mobile lab.

_What the..._

You pull up next to him and roll down the window. «Something wrong, Doctor?»

«About time!» he groans, rushing to the side passenger door to jump in. «Drive, Stone!»

«W-where to?» you ask dumbfounded, turning the car around.

«Take a right after the exit. Where's my coat?»

«Garment bag on the backseat.»

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the black truck copying your maneuver to follow, big red eye shining bright above the armored windshield. It looks like a heavy steel whale, Cyclops standing guard over its maker.

«Cool» you say, eliciting an exasperated sigh from the Doctor as he dons his coat.

«Yes Stone, I'm sure that's what a fully automated and armored truck, equipped with an arsenal that would make even the President piss himself, can be summarized as: _cool_.»

«Sorry, Doctor.»

«You're right to be. I'm surrounded by evolutionary dead-ends,» he whines, crossing his legs on the dashboard.

«Seatbelt, Doctor» you remind him, slowing down as you come to a crossroads.

«Oh right, this is a peasant vehicle,» he huffs, but complies anyway. «Head to the old airfield.»

You smirk, taking the road bending towards wide alfalfa plains. «You could improve it though, couldn't you?»

«Eh, not worth the hassle. If everything goes according to plan, in less than thirty minutes this car's gonna be a wreck.»

«What?!» you blurt, whipping your head around. Without lifting his eyes from his smartphone, the Doctor delivers you a light slap on the cheek.

«Eyes on the road, you reckless fool. My life's too precious to be ended by a boring car accident.»

You don't reply and turn the radio on, skimming through the stations until you catch familiar notes, violin fading into bass, drums slipping in a slow rhythm that reminds you of dusty postcards.

« _Some velvet morning when I'm straight_ ,» you sing softly, as the rusty domes of long-abandoned hangars emerge in the distance like an ancient town sprouted from the alfalfa itself, sunlight shivering against the tinplate roofs and the skeletons of obsolete combat aircraft, stripped of their reusable parts after breathing their last. « _I'm gonna open up your gate..._ »

«You know, you should pursue a music career, Stone.»

You smile at the sarcasm in his voice. «Trying to get rid of me, Doctor?»

«Don't push it, Stone.»

You nod and speed up a bit, eyes fixed on the cracked concrete road where only faint traces of white paint remain, run-over ghosts. You hear the Doctor shuffle in his seat, one of his heels thumping restlessly against the dashboard. «Did I order you to stop singing, agent?»

It's like a punch to the gut, violent heat flushing to your face. _He likes my voice._

«No, Doctor. Sorry, no» you stutter. « _Learn from us very much, look at us but do not touch. Phaedra is my name..._ »

You risk a glance at the Doctor: eyes closed and head leaned against the window, the sunlight accenting the paleness of his complexion, bluish veins creeping up his nape like a poisonous root system, coat framing his lean body in black ripples. Turning back to the road, you think of the _Cristo Velato_ you saw in that chapel in Naples, a lifetime ago.

You slow down as you reach the entrance of the airfield, the tall chain-link fence choked with wild ivy and tangerine crossvines, the tubular flowers opened wide to the sun like hungry bells. The gate to the airfield was torn down years ago, so you easily slip in.

The Doctor lifts his legs from the dashboard to sit up straight. «There» he says, pointing to the large clearing in front of the nearest hangar. As soon as you turn off the engine he bolts to the lab, coattails flapping wildly behind; you follow him at a slower pace, taking in the gaping mouths of the hangars, the chains and steel cables dangling from the half-crumbled ceilings. The buildings are dotted with machine-gun bullet holes, and the two runways unfolding into the nearby fields bear the warped cracks of old explosions.

«Here, put this on!»

You turn around just in time to catch a duffle bag before it hits you in the face, while the Doctor runs back into the lab. You open it to find a Kevlar lined clothing set, along with a helmet, a pair of leather gloves, boots, and a back protector. «Doctor?» you call, following him into the lab with the duffle bag over your shoulder. «What exactly are we doing here?»

He's standing in the middle of the lab with his back turned, furiously typing on his wrist device: a low buzz grows beneath your feet and the side desks withdraw into the walls, while the main console is hoisted overhead by sleek mechanical arms.

«Doctor...»

He whips around to face you, eyes wide open and twitching mustache, arms outstretched. He's grinning like a madman. «Hush, Stone! Hush!»

He lowers his hands and the lights switch to a full red, giving the lab the appearance of a whale's belly. Then a flick of his index fingers, like a magician, and a beehive of holographic screens pop up with an electric sigh, aqua lines floating gently. The outline of a smooth, curvilinear tank glowing brighter than everything else, and the Doctor spins around, basking in the light of his own genius. You feel a smile tugging at your lips, your feet drawing you closer and closer to the dancing man drenched in crimson.

« _Stone_ » he gasps, coming to an abrupt stop; he takes in your perfectly ironed clothes and scowls. «Feeling rebel today, agent?»

You shake your head and start undressing right in the middle of the lab, fingers fumbling over knots and buttons and the fresh air of the lab scorching your exposed skin: first the shoulders, then your scarred back, your abdomen. The Doctor's eyes are so dark now, onyx splinters cutting your breath into uneven gasps; you can't avert your gaze, the tingling sensation of being seen, analyzed. When you're left with just your underwear, the smile that forms on his lips makes you feel like a weird, beautiful insect on a microscope slide.

«Look at you,» he whispers. «My little dog.»

You let out a shaky breath, dragging the stiff Kevlar lined pants up; you don the jacket and boots and then get up to put on the back protector. The Doctor closes in on you in two sudden strides and you take a step back instinctively, but he's faster and yanks you by the lapels so violently you almost crash against him, a half-strangled gasp escaping your lips as he grips the protector straps. He pulls hard, and you feel the belts tightening painfully against your bones as he fastens them.

«There you go,» he hums, placing a hand on your abdomen, and you bite your cheek to prevent yourself from leaning into the heat radiating off his palm like a nova star. You lock eyes and his fingertips curl against your belly (and if he thrust all the way in, he could rip out your heart).

A condescending smile twists his thin lips. «Wanna know why you're here?»

You slightly tilt up your head, a strange peace settling into your chest as your diaphragm relaxes beneath his hand. «I'm here for target practice.»

He briskly steps back, eyes black with new rage. «Do you understand what _that_ means, agent?»

You smile and put on the helmet, turning around to exit the lab. You gather your backpack and cellphone and place them near the truck stairs, before getting in the car. As you turn the ignition key, you hear the Doctor calling you: he's standing on the threshold, hands clasped behind his back, brows knitted in a piercing stare. «I won't hold back, Stone.»

The offer is clear: walk away now, _alive_ , and tomorrow you'll be reassigned.

(Stay, and...)

«I know, Doctor. I'll do my best.»

A glimpse of astonishment on his face, mouth opening to emit no sound as you step on the gas, steering towards the runway in a cloud of gravel dust. Second gear, third gear, sweat already coating your face in the steamy car, but you don't lift the visor. When you're about 500 meters away you start to slow down, as a loud mechanical groan reverberates through the plain. You shift back to second gear and take a peek in the rear-view mirror: in the distance, the end of the black truck opens like a shell, pushing out a ramp. A smooth, compact white-and-black tank with a bright red eye emerges and immediately starts towards you.

«Oh, _fuck_ me!» you breathe out, gripping tighter the wheel as you speed up.

« _I've barely started_ » replies the Doctor's voice from inside the helmet, focused and low like a blade dipped in ink, so close to your ear that it makes you blush. « _Don't even try outrunning it, you'd only waste my time._ »

You inhale deeply. «So I avoid it.»

« _As long as possible._ »

The tank has already halved the distance, eating the runway like a six-wheeled beetle, relentless, roaring beast; you feel its hunger closing in on you, the promise of pain and broken bones into its red orb. Then it blinks, and a hidden compartment pops up to reveal a shining spear.

It's a shift in your body, haptic memory: you yank the wheel to the left as you floor the clutch, right hand engaging the hand-brake, and the car goes skidding to the left just as the tank shoots: the harpoon whistles and misses the car by a hair's breadth.

You hiss, releasing the brake as you rev up to get away as fast as possible, back to the hangars; in the side-view mirror, you see the tank steering hard to the left to resume its chase. You lick your lips, sweat trickling along your neck. «Christ.»

The Doctor giggles in your ear, voice dripping with satisfaction. « _It's a cute little thing, isn't it?_ » he asks, as three black slits open into the tank's hood.

«Yes,» you mutter, steering abruptly into the weedy field beside the runway; the soft earth caving underneath the wheels and the bushes whipping the car as you barrel through the wild parsnip stalks, your stomach somersaulting. «Abso- _fuckin_ -lutely adora-»

You hear a loud _thunk_ and suddenly the car goes off: you try slamming the brakes and instead you go flying, slamming against the door as the car topples over the side; you gasp for air, seatbelt cutting through your waist and shoulder, the left window shatters and the shards rain against your helmet, shrill roars of twisting metal deafening you. You flail your arms to brace against the impact as the car topples again, when a huge blow hits the car and you hit your head against the door frame, pain exploding and blinding you for an instant, as the car rolls once more and you feel your stomach in your mouth and your brain detached, ears ringing. You close your eyes and cover your head with both hands, curling up as you can, body shaking with adrenaline while the steel bellows, low and sad.

It takes you a moment to notice that the car has finally halted: you slowly open your eyes, uncurling your limbs with caution as if to remember the right placing; the legs first, then the arms, then a check for broken ribs: none. Through the fading haze, you feel something wet trickle down the left side of your head: you tilt your head to look in the rear-view mirror and find half of the visor missing, below your eye a bleeding gash from the cheekbone to the side of the nose.

You lean back against the seat, feeling like a pile of jelly, and close your eyes as a crackle in the helmet announces the Doctor: « _I'm not getting any younger here, Stone._ »

«I'm coming.»

You crawl out of the broken window to roll into a soft patch of purple asters, pausing a moment to look at the flowers gently swaying in the breeze, unaware of the wrecked, steaming car beside them. You pluck out a single stem before getting up and hold it tight in your gloved hand as you make your way back to the truck, the sun beating hard on your helmet, knees and shoulders throbbing with new bruises. The tank is already far ahead, the lab opening to welcome it.

You stumble into the lab with heavy footsteps and a parched throat, almost tripping over the bundle of your backpack and clothes. The Doctor is sitting at the main console with his back turned to you, a leg bouncing quickly over the other, every trace of his magician's lights disappeared; you walk up to his side and place the flower near one of the two touchpads. His leg stops mid-bounce and he straightens his back, slowly turning around to fix you with a surly glance. You remove the bloodstained helmet and place it near the flower, bringing your silent offering to completion. The Doctor's eyes dart to your wound and he leaps out of his chair to grab your jaw, jerking your head back hard. You grimace with pain feeling the gash stretch open, as he bends to your level to examine it.

«Isn't it pathetic?» he murmurs and traces a gloved thumb over freshly spilled blood, slowly smearing it up to the corner of your mouth, fingertip brushing your bottom lip. «The best brain in the world belonging to such vulnerable a kind.»

You shift just barely, trying to steady your trembling knees; the Doctor shakes his head and lets you go, taking a step back.

«Mednik,» he calls, and one of the wall compartments slides open: a drone floats out, slightly bigger than the standard Badnik, with a surprisingly blue lens and a rectangular white box attached to the underside; the Doctor goes back to the console as the Mednik flies up to your face. You close your eyes during the scan, blue light flashing through the eyelids, then a gleeful beep.

«No-concussions-detected,» it says with a robotic voice, drawing out four metal arms ending in claws. «No-fractures-detected. No-debris-detected. Initiating-treatment.»

You lean against one of the tables as it cleans first the wound and then your whole face with sterile gauze dampened with saline, scrubbing gently. After drying the skin with a new piece of gauze, two of the claws hold closed the wound as the other two work on applying butterfly stitches to it.

When the Mednik's done, you remove your gloves and pat it gently on the top. It's smooth and cold as porcelain. «Thank you,» you say, smiling to its blue eye. It beeps again and snuggles against your hand for a brief moment, before going back to sleep in its alcove. Only now you notice the Doctor staring intently at the aster, arms dropped to his sides. You almost jerk back when he whips around, nostrils flaring and eyes wide.

«What the fuck is that?!»

«It's a flower.»

His eyebrows shoot up and he throws open his arms. «Well, since I've apparently overestimated your intellect, let me rephrase it: why is that _thing_ here?»

Maybe the Mednik was wrong and you do have a concussion. It's the only thing that could explain the honest smile that curls your lips as you reply: «I just wanted to give you something nice. Since you never go out.»

_In case my blood isn't enough._

The Doctor's shoulders visibly deflate; he opens and closes his mouth, unable to find the words. He runs a hand through his hair and starts pacing the lab, restless eyes darting from you to the flower to his own hands, rhythmically clenching and relaxing.

«How did I do?» you ask in a trembling whisper, and he stops abruptly to look at you.

«Sit.» Voice stern like he's talking to a dog. (And he is, isn't he?)

You sit on the cold metallic floor and cross your legs, without peeling your eyes off him as he tilts his head to speak into the wrist device. «Engage auto-pilot and set course for the main base.»

The truck whirrs into action, the low hum of the wheels followed by a smooth vibration in the interior of the lab, as it moves to leave the airfield.

«You could have killed me,» you whisper, so low you think he won't hear but he does, and a grin spreads on his face as he comes over to where you're sitting.

«Scared?»

You shrug, leaning against the wall. «Surprised you didn't.»

He scoffs. «I'm not _that_ boring, Stone. You should know this, by now.»

You let out a hoarse laugh. «I'd never associate you with the concept of boredom, Doctor.»

He squats down to your level and for once his irises are warm, shining with amusement. «You also didn't run away crying, so that's a brownie point for you.»

The sound of a compliment from that mouth is as sweet as honey; you feel like you've just swallowed a ball of yarn that now sits warm and yellow between your lungs. «I hope it's the first of many.»

The Doctor reaches up to your face, but his fingers stop just an inch from your dressed-up wound. «I'll have to make the harpoon self-guided. You dodged that too easily.»

«Well, sorry about that!» you reply, clutching your chest in fake outrage.

He rolls his eyes and springs back to his feet. «You're unfit for this kind of testing. Next time we'll use a soldier or a cheap robot.»

Your heart skips a beat, hearing that _we_.

Singularity becoming plurality is a gift, and its meaning is: you can stay (on the threshold, not beyond. Still, what sweetness in this feeling of barely belonging). The Doctor must have understood your thinking because he straightens his back with sudden tension and forces his features in a sour expression. «Well, what are you doing sitting there? I don't pay you to take naps! And put on your clothes.»

Luckily for you, he falls back into his chair and starts typing away at his touchpads, so he can't see you biting your lips to stifle a laugh.

Have you gone mad? Spilling blood to appease the god, to let him truly understand how devoted a servant you can be, then laughing with him. Laughing when mistreated. No, it's not madness: just the ability to decipher the lemon-coated words that he uses to keep you at bay after petting your head, unable to keep this relationship in a box.

 _Professional trust is a limited thing_ , you think as you slip out of the dusty clothes. Your left arm is already blooming purple and blue.

♦ ♦ ♦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I'm absolutely incapable of writing action scenes. I'm so so sorry.


	5. Day 31

You turn on the kitchen hood light, illuminating the small wooden table under the window where a sheet of paper and a pen are waiting. You sit down with a cup of tea in your left hand and the company of the wall clock, ticking away what's left of the evening.

«Let's do this.»

You draw a vertical line in the middle of the sheet, then write on either side _pros_ and _cons_.

«Arrogant... Very hard to please. Hostile.» You write each one down in the second column. «Wary. High-strung. And rude.»

You take a long swig of tea, tapping the pen on the pristine surface of the first column.

Proud, and fun. Good dancer. Great mustache. Brilliant. Something about him speaks of incorruptibility. Hardworking. Sometimes, his rudeness is just honesty. He's passionate.

 _Captivating_.

(He pulled the straps so hard.)

You drop the pen, a wave of heat creeping up your neck. «Christ.»

You knew this would be the result. You just needed to collect your thoughts on a stupid piece of paper to focus on why the thought of each new morning makes you so... _happy_ is not the correct word but it will do for now.

Your need for some kind of purpose is a big part of that why, but reducing the Doctor to just a goal would be like beheading a rainbow beetle and leave it to rot in the dust. You used to think that loyalty came with being on someone's payroll but meeting the Doctor – getting to see him dance and solder – planted something in you: the need to be trusted by a man whose ability to trust has been utterly warped by his state of imprisonment; an exotic beast being fed on condition that he yields every golden egg he's able to lay. He may not want a part-time assistant but he needs someone he can trust, as much as he denies it: a sentinel crow always ready to answer the master's call.

In a way, you understand him. Repulsed by the routine, by the same faces and mediocrities, you burnt all the bridges and never asked for true human contact, not trusting others with your heart. So you never lived and instead chose to survive, filling every day with contractual tasks like one could fill a jar with rocks; but anguish slipped into the gaps and followed you for years, creeping under your apartment door and into your bed to soak you with sleepless nights and dread of the morning alarm.

Up until you met the Doctor, whose brown eyes made you feel judged and _seen_ : not as an agent, but as a man. You found it thrilling; an unspoken challenge that shook off the dust from your shoulders. Now every day feels like learning to ride a bicycle again: you still scrape your knees now and then but you're getting better at it.

You put down the cup and scrunch up the sheet, before placing it into an ashtray and lighting it up with a matchstick. It burns orange in the half-light of the kitchen, its soft crackle lulling you, but you can't go to sleep yet: you have to think of a new recipe for the Doctor's latte. You might try honeydew honey and dark chocolate, darker than his eyes when he gets angry.

You chug down the last of your tea, but it's too sweet. You need something bitter.

♦ ♦ ♦

The rain patters softly on the truck, underlining the pleasant silence between you and the Doctor as you drink your lattes, relishing the way the salted caramel dark chocolate shards melt on the tongue. A couple of Badniks fly lazily around the lab, grabbing screws and cables and other materials needed by the Doctor to work on a prototype of his latest project, a smart turret with thermal vision.

You lean against the main console and shoot a glance over your shoulder at the 3D model pulsating on the holographic screen, trailing your gaze over the elegant curves of the machinery, the long cylinder of the base surmounted by a small dome made out of a unique combination of LCD and plexiglass, modified by the Doctor to be chameleonic and undetectable by radars, a perfect cover for the rose of multi-barrel machine guns ready to spring into action at the minimum hint of danger.

Weirdly, its shape reminds you of a patio heater, or maybe even...

«I thought you didn't like mushrooms.»

He stops spinning in his chair and looks up from his cup. «What do you mean?»

You tip your head to the 3D model. «It kinda looks like one.»

The Doctor chokes on his latte. You patiently wait as he slams the cup on the desk, coughing till his cheeks are bright red. When he manages to catch his breath, the look of affront on his face almost makes _you_ choke.

«It certainly does _not_! Get your eyes checked, you star-nosed mole!»

You take a sip, crossing your ankles. «Sorry, Doctor.»

He grabs a folder from the desk and smacks your leg with it. «You're just a primitive bag of skin, devoid of any aesthetic sense.»

«Would you like another latte?» you offer, taking away the folder from him. «Please don't crumple my reports.»

He frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. «It's all a bunch of lies anyway.»

You put the empty cup down, trying to keep a straight face. «What do you mean, Doctor?»

He raises an eyebrow. «Did you seriously think I wouldn't read those silly weekly reports of yours?»

«And did you find anything worth discussing?»

He tilts his head like a bird, eyes glimmering. «An astounding abundance of bullshit.»

You cross your arms too, purely out of spite. «Well, pardon my French, but you say that as if my _bullshit_ wasn't to your advantage.»

«Don't fret, Stone.» He uncrosses his arms and stretches them outwards with a groan, but his gaze remains focused on you. «I'm just trying to understand what your deal with Walters is.»

«No deals,» you say, flipping through the papers in the folder before tossing it on the table. «I just think he doesn't have to know about everything you do.»

The Doctor bares his teeth in a devilish grin. So white, so many. _He looks like a shark._

«Thirty days are enough to buy you, little mockingbird? One could almost think you make a habit of double-dealing.»

«And one would be wrong to think so!» you reply, a rush of indignation reddening your cheeks. «Especially if one's read my file.»

His smile fades so quickly it's unnerving. «A piece of paper. Save it for gullible dipshits like Walters, my standards are much higher.»

You shake your head. «Do you know what I think, Doctor?»

He drops his jaw in mock surprise. «First the reports, now this? Be careful Stone, or the hamster powering your brain is gonna die of exhaustion.»

Unfazed by the insult, you take a step closer to the side of the chair; the surprise on the Doctor's face shifts to true shock when you drop to your knees.

«Stone, what are you-»

«Doctor,» you cut in, weirdly aware of the cold metal beneath you (hard like the prie-dieu at the funeral, a lifetime ago). There's something in his wide eyes, in the way he winces away from your kneeled body; you see the fear, the uncertainty in him, and remember that you're not going to win the cat's trust by cornering him.

_What I think is that you're trying to push me away._

But if you say it then you'll be the one pushing the Doctor away, forcing him to admit that the wall he's built between himself and the world is starting to crack under your touch. You cannot strip him of his pride.

You fold your hands in prayer, fingers tightly interlocked; your knuckles brush his thigh and you feel the muscles jerk. «What I think is that I'm very lucky to have you as my boss. Thank you for this month together, Doctor.»

His gaze has shifted to your hands but he doesn't move, breath held and mouth agape. He's gone so pale you think he might be having a stroke.

«Doctor?»

A loud beeping sound makes him flinch, calling him back to life. He summons a screen with a flick of his fingers and the face of a frowning man with black-rimmed glasses appears on it.

«It's doctor Shannon,» you observe, standing up.

The Doctor groans. «As perceptive as ever, Stone. What's next? "Fire is hot"?»

You choose not to answer as he pushes a button on his glove: as the Badniks fly back to their charging stations, the door whirrs open and doctor Shannon rushes in, his flapping lab coat making him look like an angry seagull; you automatically step between him and the Doctor and clasp your hands in front of you.

Shannon stops dead in his tracks and glares at you. «Doctor Robotnik, we need to talk.»

You hear the Doctor shuffle and a moment later a long slurping sound. Shannon squirms in annoyance as the Doctor drinks what's left of his latte like that for a solid half-minute. He loudly smacks his lips and puts down the cup. «I'm busy.»

Shannon runs both hands in his curly grey hair, making it stick up. «I have no time for this! Since I was appointed as head of the department you've been avoiding me, and let's not mention your absolute disregard for the mandatory debriefing meetings!»

As he rants, you see one of the Badniks in the higher alcoves near the door light up: it silently flies down to position itself behind the oblivious man, who now shifts his attention back to you and jabs a finger into your chest. «And to top all that, you've repeatedly offended me and my colleagues by making your stupid tin soldier answer confidential calls and emails!»

The Badnik flaps clack open and two guns pop out. Shannon turns around and freezes at the sight of the weapons, his rage extinguished by fear. You can't hold back a tiny smirk, delighted with the way the man shrinks on himself.

The Doctor walks up to your side, head tilted in a haughty pose. «You know what's hard about being the smartest person in the world?»

Shannon looks back at you with the face of a rabbit caught in headlights. «You... You can't be serious...»

The Doctor huffs. «Wrong. Agent Stone?»

You think about it for a moment as you watch Shannon tremble. «Everyone else being stupid?»

The Doctor claps a hand on your back. « _Ding ding ding!_ We have a winner! Did you listen, _doctor_?» He drawls the word with a chuckle, and your smile widens at the sight of Shannon's cheeks turning white.

«And the problem with stupid people is that they think it wise to come here uninvited,» the Doctor keeps going, slowly shifting behind you to grasp your shoulders. «To disturb my work – and most importantly my breakfast – just to whine about my lack of bootlicking. Do you feel wise, doctor?»

«I just-»

« _Silence!_ »

Shannon yawps and shuts his mouth. The Doctor's digits dig painfully into your muscles, but you know that shying away from his grip now would be suicidal.

«Now, I know that the neuron-depleted balloon you call "head" is adverse to complexity, so I'll keep it simple: I have. No desire. To put up. With your bullshit.» His thumbs squeeze your nerves so hard you have to bite your lip to refrain from moving. «You see, in the month or so it took you to borrow the balls needed to perform this tomfoolery, I delivered to good ol' Uncle Sam three artillery pieces so state-of-the-art that whoever gets mauled by them is going to _orgasm_.»

He purrs it, his hot breath scorching your neck; you swallow hard, cheeks burning red. If it wasn't for the man trembling in the middle of the lab, such venomous words would feel almost intimate.

«Wanna know how I managed to do it?»

«You... you work hard?» he squeals pitifully.

«Yes! Exactly!» The Doctor reaches around your shoulders to clap his hands, making you sway in the process. «And while you and your esteemed colleagues are busy complaining about me just to avoid thinking about your own pathetic lives, I use my time to do my actual fucking job.»

He pauses for a moment, withdrawing a hand while moving the other to cup the nape of your neck. (It feels wrong, so delightfully wrong.)

«And the reason I'm able to do so is my agent, who so diligently endures your Annoying Anonymous meetings in my place. Do you understand what I'm saying?»

_You're saying that I'm yours._

Shannon nods frantically. «Y-yes. I won't bother you again, Doctor. Sorry about before, agent.»

The Doctor lets go of you, humming with delight, but it's not enough; before you can think about it, you blurt out: «On your knees.»

You feel the Doctor staring at you, but Shannon complies with no hesitation under the scarlet gaze of the Badnik. It's so weird, giving orders instead of receiving them. You look at the man with the glasses, nose twitching and forehead damp with sweat, hands clenching nervously on his legs. It's pathetic: just a squirming little worm that dares to upset your Doctor as if he couldn't crush it with a single word.

«Say that you're unworthy of looking the Doctor in the eyes.»

Shannon doesn't even think twice before swallowing his dignity. «I'm... I'm unworthy of looking the Doctor in the eyes. Can I go now, please?»

Your head swims with the intoxicating sensation of power, of _righteousness_. His plea galvanizes an evilness you didn't even know you had in your soul. «Say that you're unworthy of worshipping the ground he walks on.»

He recites it with a shaky voice, his eyes filling with tears. You wish you could slap him.

«Good. Now go, and tell the other God's mistakes in your department that if any of them shows up here without the Doctor's permission, I'll make them _bleed_.»

He's back on his feet and out of the lab before you can even blink, leaving you slightly panting and deeply satisfied. You turn to the Doctor and he greets you with a half-smile, no shade in his deep hazel eyes. You smile back.

«Come here, pup.»

(Matryoshka doll, Trojan horse.)

He tugs at you with cobweb strings and you stumble towards him like a puppet, longing to hear such a word again and again, so sweet on a tongue that still reeks of the venom reserved for others.

«Doctor...»

He grabs the empty cup and shoves it in your hands. «Get me another latte.»

You nod and head for the door, but you're not even half-way there when the Doctor adds: «That was a funny show. You've been a good boy.»

You tighten your fingers around the cup, trying to still their tremble. «Anything for you, Doctor.»

The drizzle outside stings cold on your flushed face, but it can't wash away that _pup_ still clinging to your skin. You whisper it to the grey sky and the wind seems to whisper it back like a lovely, lovely curse.

♦ ♦ ♦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you'll like the chapter! I'll be out of town for a week, so no updates for a while. If you spot mistakes in my story, please point them out to me <3


	6. Day 67

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late update! The writing of this chapter went basically like this:
> 
> 1) I wrote the first three pages  
> 2) I wrote 14 pages of SUPER IMPORTANT plot notes that needed to be saved before my shitty memory could forget them  
> 3) I wrote the rest of the chapter
> 
> It's a bit shorter than the previous ones but I hope you'll enjoy it all the same.

The soft bales of alfalfa dot the silver fields around the base like big, placid animals enjoying the cold breeze as they await hibernation. After the brashness of summer, autumn feels cozy and sweet, playful in the way it gathers crunchy, rusty leaves under your feet as you make for the entrance of the base, empty latte cups and breakfast in your arms.

After six days of rain in a row last month, the Doctor decided to finally take advantage of the underground private parking directly connected to a private lab, meaning you now have your own desk and don't need to rely on the car seats or the break room sofa anymore.

You wish the lower temperatures could cool down the Doctor's fiery temperament: Shannon and his men have not trespassed on the sanctum of the lab anymore but the Doctor still has a lot of outbursts – usually after a call from those he sneeringly defines "superiors" – and every time that happens something gets broken and you get showered with insults. However, being an outlet has always been a part of the job even before the Doctor, and you don't mind acting the role if it means he won't take it out on tools whose value amounts to thrice your annual income. You don't really look forward to another call from a tearful doctor Shannon, begging you to stop the man from demolishing the equipment in the common areas.

You just wish the Doctor would try to take things a bit easier, not for you but for himself: some days he's so tense that you feel like you're walking around writhing live wires.

_Stop, for God's sake! You've done so much today, go home and rest._

Words you think but never say to avoid termination, because if you left then his goddamn brain would never allow the Doctor a moment to breathe, chat over a latte, have some basic human interaction that does not revolve around his job. He made it clear enough that day with doctor Shannon, as he held you like a vulture might hold a carcass: my agent, meaning _my_ _excuse._

His hands don't stop fretting even when they're far from a touchpad, tics small enough to go unnoticed by the untrained eye but not by you. You give them the excuse to still their motions by filling them with a hot cup.

His jaw doesn't stop grinding and clenching, lowering to let out huffs and sighs and muttered curses. You give it the excuse to bite and hold the tongue by bringing warm food.

His mind doesn't stop unfolding and folding back ideas, thoughts, worries. You give it the excuse to focus on one thing by letting the Doctor scream into your face till his cheeks are flushed.

And yet you feel that's not enough, not enough at all.

♦ ♦ ♦

When you enter the break room an agent is sitting on the sofa: the young boy who spilled coffee on himself so many days ago. He lifts his head from the cigarette he's rolling and goes pale when he sees you. You give him a curt nod and head for the kitchenette to assemble a new autumn-themed latte.

«Where's your friend?» you ask, filling the bottom of the moka with water.

The boy shuffles nervously, the clumsy crackling of rolling paper. «Uh, he- well. He got transferred a week ago.»

You shoot him a stern glance over your shoulder. In the middle of his long freckled face, his nose is awfully crooked. «Found another bigmouth to gossip with?»

«No! No, I swear!»

God, the fear in his stupid squeaky voice. It's just a boring thing, compared to doctor Shannon almost pissing his pants or even to the off-key crunch of cartilage when you smashed the heads of the two agents together. Blood spilling on the linoleum floor like tiny flowers, whimpers of pain like a good song.

«Go away, I need quiet.»

He scrambles out of the room as if you're going to beat him to a pulp with the moka, and you can't help but laugh. _Now I sound like the Doctor._

Even though it's been three weeks since he last kicked you out of the lab, and that was just because he needed an extra dance break. You quickly caught on and now all it takes to have you up and out is the minimum motion of gloved fingers toward the headset. Usually twice in the morning and twice in the afternoon, but there are exceptions.

And there are the calls.

The Doctor doesn't let you listen to those, not yet. In his mind, having someone witness him taking orders from Walters or some other much-awarded hotshot must be humiliating, you suspect.

♦ ♦ ♦

Of course, the simple obligation to answer the call is enough to make him throb with anger, which is why you take a deep breath when you hear Walters' voice from the speakers as you enter the lab. He glows blue in one of the three screens dominating the opposite wall of the lab, his furrowed brows and pointed stare making it clear his patience is almost dried up.

«...And don't make me repeat myself, Doctor. Remember, we're the ones paying for your toys.»

The Doctor is sitting in his chair with his back to you, holding a tablet so hard you can see his shoulders vibrate with tension. A long moment of silence, then a reluctant nod.

Instead of leaving, as you perfectly know you should, you take a step further and Walters notices you.

«Hello, agent Stone. How are you doing?»

The Doctor whips around in his chair to glare at you, but he stays put as you smile politely to the Vice-Chairman.

«I'm doing fine, sir, thank you. How are you?»

«I could do with much less exuberance in the environment. Well, I have to go. Goodbye, agent. Doctor,» he adds sternly, and the feed goes off.

You put the cups and the usual paper bag on a surprisingly clear desk, and turn to your boss.

«Doctor?»

He suddenly shoots his arms up and then down, slamming the tablet against the console so hard it snaps in two. «GODDAMNIT!»

He keeps slamming the half in his hand until he breaks that too and then he moves to the rest of the clutter on the console, shoving it away in a rain of wires, bolts, screwdrivers, and Badnik shell parts.

«Doctor!» you call out, to divert his attention from the innocent lab equipment to yourself.

He jerks around, a red round camera lens in one hand. You offer him a voluntarily stupid half-smile. «Is something wrong, Doctor?»

He squeezes the lens so hard it breaks, fragments tinkling on the floor. His eyes flash with anger as he straightens himself to full height. «Pin yourself to the wall.»

That's... new. You swallow and put a hand to your sternum, pushing yourself to the closest plastered wall. The Doctor runs to you in a second, lens pieces creaking under his shoes.

«Doctor, what-» you try to say, but the rest of the phrase gets stuck in your throat when your bodies collide, his chest squeezing yours. The Doctor takes a deep breath through his twitching nose, and you stare back at him with your best neutral expression.

Here comes the outburst.

«You have fun driving me mad, don't you? “Is something wrong?” YES! EVERYTHING'S WRONG!» He slams a hand on the wall by your head, a blast of air hisses in your ear. «Everything's wrong on this waste of a planet where every day – EVERY DAY – I'm subjected to the mantrums of gun-sucking ignoramuses thinking they're better than me 'cause they pitch a tent to SALUTING.» His fist slams again. «THE FUCKING.» Again. «FLAG!» Again.

He stops to catch his breath, chest heaving; the muscles in his neck stand out against his collar, ready to pop. You can't peel your eyes off him, you don't want to: he holds the beauty of a beast ready to sink his teeth in you, a slim panther dipped in ink and blood, tendons and bones trapping you against the wall. You dare to exhale and that snaps him back to reality: his eyes trail over your face, squinting.

«You might think the ability to put together a lowly coffee-based concoction can elevate you to a higher step in the pyramid of my approval, but let me set you right: you're treading on thin. Fucking. Ice.»

The hand near your head clenches into a fist, leather creaking in soft threat. You lower your eyes respectfully as the Doctor leans closer, voice dropping to a murmur. «So, the next time you feel like asking dumb questions, do my blood pressure a favor and remember that the only pyramid in your reach is built out of my never-expiring _contempt_. And do trust me, the Cholula one looks like a dogshit in comparison.»

You cautiously look up as he pulls back, a clench in your gut at the sudden absence of pressure from his body. (Every time it feels like a loss.)

The Doctor slumps back into his chair, propping his elbows on the console. «Now. Is there something you wanna ask me?»

You detach yourself from the wall as if nothing unusual has just happened to pick up the food and cups. «May I serve breakfast?»

«That's better. Get on with it, I'm starving.»

«I know,» you say with a hint of tenderness as you pull a Tupperware box out of the paper bag; you open it to let the pleasant aroma of cinnamon spread in the lab and set it in front of the Doctor along with his latte.

_I know, I know, you never stop, you’re always burning. It’s ok, I’ll feed you._

He tilts his head with interest, eyeing the fat slice of golden pastry spilling diced apples, raisins, and walnuts. «Strudel?»

 _«Crescia fogliata,»_ you correct him, handing him a fork. «It's a bit different. A traditional Italian sweet.»

«Mh. Homemade?» he inquires, taking a big morsel: he chews it slowly, his eyes closed to focus on the taste. When he swallows you hold your breath, ready to accept every criticism, but the Doctor turns to you with a smile, a beautiful half-smile that makes you straighten your back with pride.

«Yes, Doctor. Homemade.»

«Why, my dear agent, you astound me! It's delicious.»

«I'm glad you like it,» you say, hiding the violent blush of your cheeks by taking a sip of your pumpkin spice latte, enhanced by a spoonful of chestnut honey and a generous amount of whipped cream and butterscotch syrup; an amount that borderlines indecency on the Doctor's latte: when he notices it he laughs out loud. «Now you're spoiling me!»

«Is it spoiling, though? Since I'm on your payroll.»

He shrugs and puts his legs on the console. «The last agent sent here once brought me a latte with no whipped cream after I'd explicitly asked for it.»

You chuckle. «That _once_ says a lot.»

«Oh, no, I was in a good mood that day. I took only three of his fingers.»

«He was really lucky, then.» You hold out your cup. «Want my cream too?»

He looks at it, then at you, then back at his cup as he does a half-spin with the chair. «Ok.»

You raise an eyebrow as you grab a paper spoon to relocate the cream. The Doctor hesitating. You feel absurdly guilty, and you can't say why.

«So,» he says and clears his voice, as you move the cream dollop to his latte. «Your file says you've spent eight months in Italy.»

«That's correct.»

He simply keeps staring at you, and you shuffle uncomfortably. «It was with my first boss, I was still a newbie.»

«I read about her. Ambassador, sixty-three, murdered by a terrorist a week after her return to New York.»

«Yeah, well.» You sigh, gaze lost in the swirls of your latte. «I wasn't her agent anymore at that point.»

The words feel heavy on your tongue like lead pearls. If she hadn't sent you away on holiday for the summer, then maybe...

You feel a shoe nudging your shin, snapping you back to reality; the Doctor's looking at you from over his cup.

«Sorry. Got distracted.»

«Tell me about the _Bel paese_.»

You shrug. «There's not much to say. I spent most of my time working, but I did see some beautiful cities. Verona was my favorite, my ex-boss and I saw an amazing _Tosca_ there.»

«You're an opera lover?»

«Not really, but I had fun.»

He chuckles. «You know, I've never been to Italy.»

«You should.»

«Mh,» he says and then chugs down the rest of the latte. «Maybe one day.»

«Even geniuses deserve a holiday, I'm sure.»

«I'm a busy man, Stone. I'll make do with Christmas leave.»

You gather the empty cups and the Tupperware box, as he starts typing on the touchpads; three screens light up with new tabs and folders.

«Will you be spending it with your family?» you ask, going to your desk. He doesn't answer so you shoot him a glance just in time to see him put on the headset. You know you asked a wrong question when he doesn't yell at you for sitting down to work instead of leaving him alone with his music.

_Don't worry. I'll be alone at Christmas too._

You stay silent and turn on your laptop.

♦ ♦ ♦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Crescia fogliata” is a typical dish of the humble cuisine, you can usually find it in the middle regions of Italy such as Umbria and Marche. Some people also add dried figs and other kinds of nuts to the crescia, but my grandma usually fills the pastry with just apples, raisins and walnuts plus cinnamon.
> 
> I'm from Marche but t I've lived in Verona for two years and god, it's beautiful. I also saw Tosca there with my best friends, it was super fun and the baritone playing Scarpia (Claudio Sgura) was super hot. Of course, villains are always the best characters.
> 
> I'll leave a link to a video of him playing the famous "Va, Tosca!" aria (not in Verona tho) so you can check him out: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bJkP_HOJkhM&ab_channel=ImmagineStudio


End file.
